Every man carries the seed of his own death, and you will not be more than a man. You will have everything; you cannot have more.

I had always been content to know that there was more in the living world than we could hope to understand.

I reached for sleep and drew it round me like a blanket muffling pain and thought together in the merciful dark

To remember love after long sleep; to turn again to poetry after a year in the market place, or to youth after resignation to drowsy and stiffening age; to remember what once you thought life could hold, after telling over with muddied and calculating fingers what it has offered; this is music, made after long silence. The soul flexes its wings, and, clumsy as any fledgling, tries the air again

To plant a garden is the chief of the arts of peace.

I knew that I had turned my world back to cinders, sunk my lovely ship with my own stupid, wicked hands.

Every man carries the seed of his own death, and you will not be more than a man. You will have everything; you cannot have more.